


Tangled Roots

by canonjohnlock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Growing Up, POV Second Person, Pre-Season 1, Pre-Series, Some Fluff, Suggestion of Rape, not described in detail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canonjohnlock/pseuds/canonjohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing has changed except the woman on the ceiling and the darkness in your soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled Roots

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my always lovely beta, Julia. 
> 
> Title is taken from the quote by Ally Condie.

You were four years old and alone in the world. Flames licked up the walls of your brother’s bedroom and you thought that maybe this was a bad dream and Daddy and Mommy would run into your room and sing you lullabies until you fell asleep. But no matter how much you screamed, no noise escaped your lips as you watched helplessly as Daddy ran out of your brother’s room, a tiny infant cradled in his arms. A tiny drop of blood shone upon your brother’s lips but there were no cuts to be found. You were told to go as fast as you could and you ran with your baby brother in your arms. The floor almost got ripped out from under you and you stumbled but kept running. Your baby brother was quiet and still despite the roaring flames and thick smoke. His wide, hazel eyes stayed trained on your face. The fire reflected in his eyes and you almost dropped him because he looked so scary with the fire roaring in his eyes. Instead you told him it was okay and watched your home go up in flames. Daddy grabbed you and your brother and you clutched your brother tighter. Maybe you could erase the memory from your mind if you wished hard enough.

You were six years old and the kids at school made fun of you because your hair was too long and too dirty and your handwriting looked like scribbles and you couldn’t read. The teacher called your dad but there was no answer and when she asked for your mom’s number you didn’t say anything. You couldn’t remember what Mom looked like or what her favorite color was. The teacher asked you again and still you remained silent. The next day you went to school you had a black eye because a can of soup had fallen on you while you were trying to feed your brother. The teacher called the nurse who gave you ice and kept asking, “Who did this to you?” and you told her the truth but for some reason she didn’t believe you. She called your dad and there was no answer. “Where is your dad?” You replied with a shrug. You didn’t know. Your brother was with the motel manager who smelled like cigarettes and moldy bread.

You were seven years old and the girl in your reading group looked like sunshine and flowers and told you that she liked your eyes. Her name was Skye and she had a big house with a front porch and a swing set that didn’t creak when you used the monkey bars. She let you bring your brother with you to her house because she knew you loved him very much and she thought he was cute. Her mommy made you PB&J sandwiches like your mom used to make. Your brother liked peanut butter and fluff sandwiches though and you cried when Skye’s mom bought fluff from the store just for your brother. Skye wanted to go to your house but you were afraid she wouldn’t like the motel room with the rot on the baseboards and the rust on the bed frames. But she insisted she go to your house and you told her it’s not really a house but more of a room. She liked your motel room and thought it was cool that you lived there. You played house with her and your brother giggled and had fun but then Dad came back and asked who the hell Skye was. “Hello, Mr. Winchester! I’m Skye.” Dad barely barked out a hello before yelling at you to pack your bags and get in the car. You dropped Skye off at her big house and didn’t even get to say good-bye before Dad peeled out of the driveway and down the street and you cried in the backseat until Dad told you to shut up.

When you were nine and in third grade, you beat up a boy in your class because he called your little brother dumb. You threw punches until your hands bled and by the time the teachers pulled the two of you apart, the boy was knocked out and you had blood splattered on your face. For some reason, the school didn’t expel you but you got a week suspension. You’d be gone in three days anyhow. They called your dad and he didn’t answer. He never did. They kept you in the office until school was let out and you went to find your brother. He was in his kindergarten class room, working with his teachers on math. Colorful blocks were spread out before him in two groups. He concentrated very hard before saying, “Twelve?” The teacher sighed. He was five off.

You were eleven years old when you first found a place you could call home. You were there for three months while Dad worked multiple jobs in the area. You and your brother stayed with Uncle Bobby, who wasn’t really your uncle but he was close enough. You had your own room at Uncle Bobby’s but your brother slept with you every night. You went to school by riding the school bus and you thought it was the coolest thing. Your brother didn’t like it because there were no seatbelts. At the end of the day as you got off the bus, Uncle Bobby would meet you and your brother at the bus stop. He’d smile and ruffle your hair and would let your brother hold his hand. You wouldn’t have to worry about making your brother dinner because Uncle Bobby would take care of it. He’d let you watch TV for an hour before making you do your homework. At night, if he wasn’t busy doing research for Dad, Uncle Bobby would tuck you and your brother in and, if your brother begged enough, he’d read you guys a story. You’d always scoff and say you were too old for stories and pick up one of the comic books Uncle Bobby had gotten you. Secretly, however, you’d listen to him do the voices and smile to yourself.

At age thirteen you got your first job bussing tables at a grungy diner. You worked every day after school. Your brother would sit at a booth in the back corner and work on his homework. You’d sneak him leftovers from tables and he’d smile at you, big and bright and so, so happy. When your shift was over, you’d walk to the motel in the dark with your brother by your side. He’d fall asleep quickly, thin fingers gripping your stained shirt tightly. When you were sure he was asleep, you’d pry his fingers off and finish your homework. You’d stare at the math pages or the English books or the science labs until the words all blurred together and you couldn’t tell right from left. You’d catch a few precious hours of sleep before you woke at four to walk to the laundromat. You’d do a quick load of laundry and make it back to the motel room just before it was time for school. You’d repeat the process again the next day.

You were sixteen when your sophomore English teacher kept you after class one day. You tried to explain to her that you had to get your little brother from the middle school. She told you it would only take a short amount of time. She closed the door and you heard the soft click of the lock being turned.You stiffened. “Take a seat,” she mused, sitting on her desk and crossing her legs. You sat shakily in one of the creaky wooden desks and placed your hands in your lap. “You have potential, you know.” You looked up, your mouth forming an ‘o’ at her comment. She laughed, waving her hand in the air. “Not in school, god no.” She laughed again and stood up from her perch on the desk. “You have a very unique set of traits, Mr. Winchester. Full lips, bright, bright eyes, muscled arms…” She licked her lips and leaned over your desk. You shrunk back and looked down at your lap. She crooked a finger under your chin and forced you to look up. “So mature for your age… So developed. Such a pretty boy.” You twisted in your seat and turned your head to stare at the wall. She gripped your jaw tight and snapped your head back to face her. With her other hand she toyed with your zipper on your pants. You pushed her hands away forcefully and stood up. She pushed you against the wall and you didn’t fight back. _I deserve this. I couldn’t save Mom_ , you thought as she guided your hand to the hem of her pencil skirt.

You were eighteen when you dropped out of high school. Dad didn’t have the money to send both you and your brother. Your brother was so much smarter than you. He understood algebra and he could play the piano well. He made so many friends everywhere he went; he had contact books filled with home phone numbers and emails and addresses and everything in between. What did you have? A sawed off shotgun with werewolf teeth marks on the barrel and your own fake badge with the name ‘David Rose’ printed on it. You no longer rode in the back of the car with your brother. The passenger’s seat was yours and you made it your own. You had secret cigarette packs stashed beneath the seat and sticky soda stains on the handle. Your brother sat in the back and stared at the G.I. Joe stuffed in the door. Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you but you’d pretend you didn’t notice and instead crank the volume on the radio. You knew your brother didn’t like rock as much as you and Dad but you still blasted the speakers. The wall between you and your brother was not just the space between the front and back seat of a 1967 Impala.

You were nineteen when you first came eye-to-eye with death. A chunk of flesh was pried from your ribcage and the bones were smashed. You could see your fluttering lung through the shiny, sticky blood. You hollered in pain and thrashed in the back seat. You vaguely recalled your brother, fifteen and still scrawny as always, leaning over the front seat and staring at the gaping wound. Tears streaked down his face as your dad weaved between cars and shouted ‘Five more minutes! Hold on!’ Before you were taken into the ER, Dad made you all align stories: chance encounter with a bear during a hunting trip. Your brother told you that while you were jacked up on morphine, you mumbled stuff about a poltergeist ripping you apart like it had done to it s family. Dad couldn’t take the time you needed to recover off from his ‘job’. He got your brother a motel room near the hospital and took off. It took you two months to recover. Your brother received the best grades in his sophomore class, all the while keeping vigil at your side.

You were twenty-two when your brother ran into the motel room, brandishing a shiny letter with his full name printed across the front. He showed you the return address as you filled shotgun shells with salt. STANFORD UNIVERSITY was all you read before looking back at the shotgun shells. You heard your brother rip the letter open eagerly and heard his gasp. “Full ride!” he bellowed, hugging you from behind. You smiled at him and hugged him proper, ruffling his hair. He showed you the letter and he did indeed have a full ride. Your brother could go to college just like he had always dreamed. Your father came back from the hunt and when your brother showed him the letter, Dad scoffed and pushed your brother out of the way. “Nice one,” he grumbled as he settled himself on the motel bed. Your brother talked about packing and getting his books. Your father sat upright. “You’re actually going?” Your brother beamed and stood up taller. God, your baby brother was so tall and handsome. He nodded. Your father chuckled. “As if. Throw that away.We gotta run.” You watched your brother’s face fall and you stood to defend him. _You aren’t even proud?_ Your father chuckled again. Anger flashed in your brother’s eyes.

You were twenty-four and starting to get used to life on the road without your brother. You stopped glancing in the backseat and having mini heart attacks when the familiar mop of your brother’s hair wasn’t there. You stopped bringing extras back from diners for a brother that wasn’t with you anymore. You stopped jolting awake in the night when you felt an empty space next to you. You stopped looking for schools in the area. You stopped scraping up cash to buy school supplies and instead used the money for ammo and the like. You stopped setting up temporary library cards. You stopped being you. Without your brother, you weren’t yourself. All your life you had been defined by the success of your brother. If he was fed and happy, you were happy. If he was scared and hurt, you were hurt. Suddenly, you had split. A part of you was gone. A huge chunk of your existence was missing. Your brother. Your best friend. Your doctor. Your last shred of life before. Your _soulmate_ was missing.

You were four when you pulled your baby brother from a fire. You were twenty-six when you did it again. You were four when you noticed a drop of blood upon your baby brother’s lips. You were twenty-six when you noticed it again. You were four when you lost your mom. You were twenty-two when you lost your brother. And you were always four years old, weren’t you? Nothing has changed except the woman on the ceiling and the darkness in your soul. 


End file.
